


Safe and Sound

by myglassesaredirty



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Dad!Tony, Gen, Hurt Tony, Hurt/Comfort, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Serial Killer, So many tags, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony-centric, i freaked out writing this, i have, outdone myself with the angst, slightly happy ending, team's back together briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-11 01:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12312015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myglassesaredirty/pseuds/myglassesaredirty
Summary: It starts with a collapsed building.





	Safe and Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So to begin with, this is the longest thing I've ever written. Especially when it comes to one-shots.
> 
> Second, this is based a little on two different songs that I've listened to on repeat for the past three days: "Safe and Sound" and "Bring Him Home" from Les Mis.
> 
> Now, for some of you, this might be a turn-off, but the part that "Bring Him Home" influenced has a prayer. It's in character and it's not intended to be religious. It was just that thing that sort of happened in a time of desperation with nothing and no one else to turn to. If that's going to stop you from reading, then, well, I'm sorry, but I can't say that you're not missing out. Again, it's not intended to be religious, but it's there.
> 
> For those of you who decide to keep on reading: thank you, and happy reading!

They’re trapped.

Peter pretends not to let his panic show, but Tony has been dealing with crap like this far longer than Peter ever had to; he grips the teenager by the bicep and drags him to the safest area of the building.

The worst of it is that they’re only in their civilian clothes. No iron suit, no reinforced webbing to help protect them.

Tony partially chose this specific spot in the building because it seemed to be the most stable and also because if he cranes his neck just so, he can see outside into a world that’s still moving on without them.

He can hear Peter’s teeth chattering, and he sighs heavily, pulling his off his suit jacket and extending it to him. Peter looks up, about to refuse, but Tony doesn’t give him the option, simply dropping it on the kid’s lap.

The building is long abandoned, as is evident by the dust that continually tickles Tony’s nose and makes him sneeze.

They have one gateway to the outside world, and he doesn’t want to risk trying to get out just in case the entire building collapses on them and sends Peter into a panic attack.

He saw that footage. He hates himself for it.

But that’s enough of that.

He turns around slowly, surveying the lobby. Peter’s using his jacket as a blanket while he burrows further into his sweatshirt.

“I don’t suppose you have your Spider suit in your backpack?” he says wryly as he rubs his left arm. He’s going to need to see a doctor after this.

Peter shakes his head. “No. You told me not to go patrolling when I’m sick.”

Tony points at him with his index finger. “That I did. And you kinda sorta listened this time around. Good job.”

Peter mumbles something that Tony’s ears are too old to catch.

“At least you can get some homework done,” he says unhelpfully, craning his neck to look at the ceiling.

Peter shrugs. “Yeah.” Gingerly, he reaches forward, unzipping the bag and pulling out a textbook that’s thicker than Tony’s head.

“Jesus, kid,” Tony says when he sees it. “What the hell is in that thing?”

Peter shrugs again. “It’s my English textbook,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing ever.

Tony quirks his eyebrows in response, turning again to look out that speck of a window. “Have you tried calling anyone?”

“My phone’s dead.”

Tony shoots him a glance over his shoulder. “I thought you had a Starkphone.”

Peter shakes his head. “Too expensive.”

He has to resist the urge to facepalm. “Kid, you do know that you’re talking to the creator of that phone, right? And that I could very easily just give you a free, updated version?”

Peter opens his textbook to his assignment, digging in his bag to pull out a notebook. “I didn’t want to bother you about it.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “When we get out of here, I’m getting you one.”

Peter flashes him a thumbs-up as he clicks his pen. “Hey, did you ever read Civil Disobedience?”

Tony furrows his eyebrows in thought, thinking for a moment. “I think so. But that was a long time ago.”

“Do you think you could answer these questions for me?”

“Peter.” Tony’s voice carries a warning with it, and Peter’s apologizing as he starts writing out the answers.

He shakes his head, standing on his tiptoes, catching how the sun looks more orange than golden – a sign that they’re about to be in for a long night.

His phone had been crushed in the collapse of the entryway, and he doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Peter’s still blaming himself for dragging them into this. At least this way, Tony reminds himself, Peter has someone looking out for him.

It doesn’t take long for Peter to finish his English homework, and he’s working on the rest of his assignments as the sun begins to drop below the horizon.

Peter’s stomach growls, and Tony turns around to see him with wide eyes and lips pressed tightly together.

Tony eyes him warily for a second. “Is your body going to start digesting itself if I don’t get some food in you right now?”

Peter opens his mouth in response, thinking for a moment. “I –” he says, cocking his head curiously. “I don’t think so.”

Tony stares at him for a moment. “It better not.” He turns back around, not quite sure why he can’t face the boy sitting on the ground, instead choosing to watch as the sun goes down in New York City.

Peter laughs nervously behind him. There’s a beat. Then: “Mr. Stark, how are we going to get out of this?”

He tries not to let the kid know that he’s been thinking the same exact thing. They have no way of communicating with the outside world, and – knowing May – even if people are looking for them, they won’t have any idea of where to look.

He claps his hands together, and he hears the strangled gasp that comes from Peter. He winces a little bit, but says, “There’s two geniuses in this room, kid. We’ll find a way.”

Peter’s voice is small, and in an instant, Tony is reminded all over again that he’s just a kid. “But what if we don’t?”

“We will.” It’s a promise.

There’s something that’s wrong with the whole situation. He knows it; Peter knows it. Something’s wrong in the outside world, and they’re in here, incapable of helping.

That’s got to mean something.

“Peter,” he says, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of smoke curling in the sky. “Why did you run in here?”

He hears Peter spluttering behind him, but the pieces of the puzzle are falling together for him.

“Pete,” he says, a bit too impatiently.

Peter gulps. “I was just chasing a criminal.”

His eyes are still trained outside as he lets his ears listen for any creaks and groans coming from the building. “What level of crime are we talking? Petty theft? Grand theft bicycle? Jaywalking?”

He’s expecting Peter to say something in response to that – or, at the very least, to feel his eyes drilling into the back of his skull. When Peter does nothing, Tony shifts his focus from the burning outside to Peter.

Peter’s looking at the ground as he picks at his jeans.

“Peter?” Another warning, but this time, Peter doesn’t respond to it.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, and Tony knows it’s such a blatant lie, because the kid was never good at lying in the first place. “He just – he seemed like a sketchy dude.”

“Did you see his face?” He’s standing above him, trying to catch Peter’s eye, but Peter is determined not to be seen.

“I didn’t get a good look, Mr. Stark –”

Another blatant lie.

“Can the bull,” Tony says, running a hand through his hair. “Spidey sense, remember? You told me that the day I met you. If you caught a glimpse, you know exactly who he is. My question is: why won’t you tell me?”

Peter looks up and licks his lips. “I-I didn’t see his face, Mr. Stark. He was wearing a ski mask.”

Tony purses his lips and nods slowly. “But why would he come here?”

Peter looks away, in the direction of the window that Tony’s too slow to move in front of. “He wasn’t a thief, Mr. Stark. He-he was a serial killer.”

Tony blinks slowly and shakes his head once, trying to process the words. When he opens his eyes, Peter’s still looking at him sheepishly, and in that moment, all calmness flies out the window (quite literally). “WHAT?!”

Peter winces, and Tony doesn’t bother apologizing for his volume because the kid deserved it. “I was going after a serial killer, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s pacing now, and he waves his hand at the kid to dismiss his words. “No, no, yeah, I got that the first time around.” He stops pacing for a moment, lasering Peter with a look that makes Peter shrink away from him. “I thought I told you to look after the little guy: robberies, bicycle thieves, jaywalkers, maybe the occasional drug bust. I did not mean, in any way, for you to go chasing after a serial killer!”

Peter winces again, reaching up with one hand to press it against his ear. Tony almost feels bad.

Key word: almost.

“But I kind of am looking out for the little guy when I chase after –”

“Peter.” Tony shakes his head, halting in his tracks and kneeling before him. “Peter, I get that you’re an enhanced individual. I get that long list that comes with it, alright?” He waits for Peter’s little nod before he continues. “But you’re not invincible.”

Peter opens his mouth to say something, but Tony raises his index finger and Peter keeps quiet.

“I know that you’re a teenager, and especially after your first kiss, it feels like you can conquer the world. But you can’t, alright? You’re just a kid. And I –” He sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping in the process. “I can’t protect you from everything. He could kill you, even though you have spidey senses and super strength.”

He’s scared, now, and his hands are shaking as he rubs them over his pants. His stomach turns with fear and guilt, and his heart beats faster than normal. The panic is pushing all rational thought from his brain, taking the space meant for getting the hell out of here, and he sucks in a quick breath, pressing his shaking hands into his eyes.

“What? Tony? Mr. Stark? I-I’m fine, really, I am, just…please calm down, just, I’m right here, I’m good.” Peter’s hand wraps around one of his wrists and he tugs, pulling Tony’s hand away from his eye. “Just look at me, Mr. Stark, I’m alright.”

Tony shakes his head as he hyperventilates.

“Just…Wait! I remember reading a method on how to get over these things.”

“So…fucking…helpful,” Tony manages to grit out.

“Tony? Tony, just listen to me, alright? Okay, breathe in for four seconds.”

For the sake of the kid, he does.

“Now hold it for seven.”

He’s pretty sure it will fail, but does it anyway.

“Now exhale for eight.”

He does, and a bit of the panic subsides. Not a lot, but Tony notices it.

“Do it until you feel normal again.”

Tony does, still unsure how a method he probably found on social media is working on him. It takes a couple of minutes, but finally, the paralyzing fear is gone.

Tony leans back with a shaky breath, eyes trained on Peter, who also looks like he’s about to break down.

Shit.

Which, honestly, is the best way to sum up the entirety of the situation they’ve walked themselves into.

“So let me get this straight,” he says, holding up a hand. “You saw a person you thought was a serial killer – and for the sake of my sanity, we’re just going to say that you assumed that he was one. So that means this guy would have to know that you would or that you were going after him, meaning he probably has some sort of setup in or around here. That also means he was either planning to run from you or kill you. Any other details I’m missing?”

Peter continues to avoid eye contact, and Tony has a creeping suspicion that he’ll be flipping out again.

“Um,” Peter says, tracing his finger through the dust covering the ground. “Uh, he-he may have been, like, on the Most Wanted List.”

Tony glares at him.

“I-I’m not exactly sure – okay, yes, I am, but like, don’t freak out – but um, he was-he was the…he was the Stretcher.”

Tony’s too scared to do much in this moment. His mouth falls open slightly as he stares at Peter with furrowed eyebrows.

Thirty kills in the span of a year, ranging from kids to parents to grandparents. No one was safe; the Stretcher didn’t go after anyone based on race, sexual orientation, or sex. He just…did.

But if that guy had even the slightest idea that he could take down a superhero, he would do it in a heartbeat. Especially when that specific hero was taking down drug rings on the regular (even if Tony had told him to let the police handle it).

So, yeah. Tony’s beyond “freaking out;” in fact, he would venture to say, he entirely skipped that phase and jumped straight to “paralyzing fear.”

But, honestly, it makes sense: Peter saw something sketchy, Tony saw Peter see something sketchy, Peter ran after the Stretcher, Tony ran after Peter running after the Stretcher.

Tony crawls to the edge of the lobby, squinting through the glass that’s currently acting as a portal to the outside world. He tilts his head, listening acutely for any indication of what’s going on out there.

Instead, he hears Peter’s whisper. “I can hear their screams.”

He whips his head around so quickly that there’s a possibility that he broke his neck. Peter clutches his backpack to his chest, tears filling his eyes for the first time since the entryway collapsed.

He turns around, slowly walking back towards Peter. “Where are they coming from?”

Peter gestures vaguely, and some part in the back of Tony’s brain remembers another abandoned building less than a mile away.

“Listen, Pete,” Tony says carefully, watching him closely. “We can’t help them unless we get out of here.”

Peter nods his head, a movement so slight that Tony almost doesn’t catch it.

“For right now, I have no idea how to do that. You’re sick, you’re tired, you’re hungry. I know because I feel the same. But you’re a lot stronger than me, so I’m gonna need you to rest up while I figure out a way to get out of here.”

Peter sniffles and curls in on himself. Tony sees a boy, a child who’s scared out of his mind, but in a second, he blinks, and Peter looks the same as usual. “You don’t need my help?”

Tony shrugs. “I probably will. But for now, you seriously need to get some sleep. I’m right here; I’m not going anywhere.” Of course, he knows it’s a lie. As soon as he knows Peter’s asleep, he’s going to be exploring every open inch of this building.

But when Peter nods, shuffling to a post that seems secure and leaning against it, Tony thinks that maybe there’s a better way of doing things.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter says, and Tony’s heart squeezes in his chest. “Please don’t leave me here by myself.”

Right.

Peter’s eyes are closed when Tony says, “Of course not, kiddo. Of course not.”

Peter smiles slightly. “Good,” he murmurs sleepily.

Tony looks back outside, torn between getting them out of here by whatever means necessary and keeping his promise to Peter. The sun has long since gone down, but orange burns on the horizon, and Tony can feel his breath hitch in his throat.

There’s so many things wrong with the whole situation that he has no idea where to start.

X-X-X-X-X

He starts by keeping watch.

Somehow, he’d managed to pull out Peter’s math notebook from his bag without waking him up. Now, he’s working through equations, trying to find a solution that could support any of the beams long enough to get himself and Peter out.

He glances at Peter, whose mouth has fallen open. He looks like a kid.

This time, the thought doesn’t startle him. Peter just looks like a fifteen-year-old kid. Actually, Tony thinks, he looks younger than that. His body has relaxed, and he can hear the soft breathing coming from his mouth. In this moment, he looks so much like a kid that Tony pities himself for never becoming a father.

He missed out on a lot, he thinks as he looks back down at his paper.

The Stretcher’s out there, somewhere close by. Tony can feel it in his bones: the man is waiting for Iron Man and Spider-man to swoop in to save the day.

Only, this way, Tony can’t risk the life of a teenager and Peter can’t risk the life of an unpowered individual.

The promise is coursing through his veins, now, even if he refuses to speak it: nothing’s going to hurt Peter Parker. No one is going to hurt Peter Parker. By any means necessary.

He sighs quietly, tossing his pen on the ground. He freezes for a moment, watching just in case Peter wakes up.

He doesn’t.

And Tony’s overwhelmed with the desire to protect this kid, to see him live another day. He finds himself praying, and it’s so uncommon and so unlike him that he’s pretty sure that he’s doing it wrong.

But he’s doing it.

He picks himself up off the floor, quietly creeping to the edge of the lobby where Peter will be less likely to hear him.

“Hey, God. Um, I-I don’t know if you know who it is, but according to Steve, you do, so, uh…hi.” He waves a little bit at the ceiling, suddenly feeling stupid. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Listen, I uh…I don’t know how you do this sort of stuff or why even you do this sort of stuff. And like, I hate to keep bringing up Steve, but he’s really the only Christian I’ve ever met, but um…he says you hear us and help us.”

He glances back Peter’s way, smiling slightly when he sees that he’s still asleep.

“And I don’t-I don’t want to offend you or anything, but like…my life’s pretty shitty. Oh shit! Sorry, I’m sorry, I forgot, you know, the whole ‘clean language’ thing. But uh…yeah. My life’s pretty fu –” His eyes widen immediately. “– freaking awful. But, uh…this kid comes into my screwy life and makes it…a lot less screwy.”

The orange burning outside fades and is slowly being replaced by a silver glow.

“He’s a good kid, God. Like, he deserves to go to heaven when he’s old and has advanced modern science and a lot of that crap. But…he’s still a kid. He’s stupid sometimes, irrational, has no sense of self-preservation, and yeah, he has a bit of a mouth sometimes. But overall, he’s a good kid. Better than I ever was. And like…if I’m this scared, and I’m a fifty-year-old man with a suit of armor who has faced…unthinkable things, then he must be terrified.”

He feels like God is nodding along with him. He didn’t even know that was possible.

“And like…there are a lot of things I can ask of you, but I’m really not in the place to do it, so I’m asking for Pete over there. Let him sleep soundly. If that’s all you can do, then that’s all I ask. But –” he sighs again, running his hand through his hair. “He’s like a son to me, God. I didn’t even know it was possible to love something this much, and there’s this kid who can’t ever shut up, and…I don’t know, I feel like I need to protect him from whatever this cruel world has to offer.” He looks up sharply. “Why is this world so cruel anyway? Doesn’t matter.”

Peter murmurs something in his sleep, and Tony stops talking for a moment. Peter shifts slightly, curling his hand into a fist and resting it against his chest.

“He’s a kid. He’s not my kid, God, but I think of him as my kid. God, just…let him have this. Let him rest and have peace. Please let those dangerous fuckers – sorry, my bad, sorry – stay away from him. Let him be a kid because he never really got to. Just in case you don’t know: his parents died when he was nine, his uncle died a little over a year ago, and now it’s a battle to keep him from experiencing more crap. Let him have his first kiss with that crush he can’t stop texting when he’s interning with me, let him watch those new Star Wars or Star Trek movies or whatever he’s interested in nowadays.”

Something feels right about this situation now, like some missing puzzle pieces are sliding into place.

“But if one of us has to go when we go after the Stretcher, let it be me. I’m not exactly your best creation; I’m also old and have destroyed people’s lives. I tore the Avengers apart, and we were supposed to protect the world. Just…again, if it comes down to a life and death situation for either Peter or myself, take me. Bad choice of wording: let me die instead of him. Please, God.” He closes his eyes, for the first time since he began praying. “Let him live. Please. Just…let him live.”

He doesn’t really know how to sign off, or how to end the talk or however you let God know you’re done praying. So he waves at the ceiling again. “Well, uh…see ya. Actually, probably not, but um. Bye. God. Um. Goodbye.”

He turns and walks back to his previous spot, sitting Crisscross-Applesauce. He picks up his pen, and suddenly, the last puzzle pieces hit him full force.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, crawling over to Peter and gently shaking him awake.

Peter sniffles, raising his hand and gently pushing away Tony’s with it. “Wha?” he says, still mostly asleep.

“Kid, I figured it out,” Tony whispers. “I’m getting us out of here.”

Peter wakes up at this, grabbing his backpack and putting it on. “Alrightie then.”

Tony puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Before we do this, I need to ask you one thing: don’t go trying to save the world this time around. It’s going to be a mess, and we’re going to need reinforcements. Just…once we get out of here, go straight back home. I’ll call you when we need Spider-man.”

Peter nods. “Of course, Mr. Stark.”

He hates how blindly this kid trusts him.

X-X-X-X-X

Tony’s not quite sure himself how he knows the physics of the situation, but Peter understands. They prop up other fallen beams they’d found throughout the building at seemingly random angles, and Tony takes off one of the straps of Peter’s backpack, promising to buy him a brand new one later.

(Though, really, it’s just because he doesn’t want the mere image of a backpack to send Peter spiraling into a panic attack. The kid already has enough PTSD. No need to trigger it.)

He fashions a crappy pulley out of the strap and his suit jacket. Peter miraculously has some of his web shooters from his pajama days in his bag, and he slips them on, prepared to activate this thing that could very well kill them both.

He tries not to think about it.

He places a hand on Peter’s back, gently but forcibly guiding him forward. If it all goes south, he wants Peter to be the one to get out. He doesn’t know much about prayer, but he thinks God listens, and that’s enough to convince him that Peter’s going to get out of this.

The strap is tightly wound around Tony’s hand, and he nods at Peter, who looks absolutely sick to his stomach. “Now!” he says, yanking on the pulley. Peter shoots a web at the beam blocking the door and pulls hard, grabbing Tony’s arm just in time and forcing him down.

They can both hear the crumbling coming from behind them, but Tony pushes it to the back of his mind as he pulls his hand from the strap and grips Peter by the bicep.

They’re running like hell, the building is crashing around them, and the door’s just too damn far away. Dust falls into Peter’s hair as he slows his pace so that Tony can keep up.

He wants to scream at him. It’s their only chance, and he’s about to throw that away for him. Some instinctive part in his mind screams at him to hit the ground and slide, and he does, pulling Peter along with him.

There’s an “oof,” and Tony vaguely registers a beam crashing mere inches from his head.

He doesn’t even register that they’re outside yet; he’s sitting up immediately, and he releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when he sees Peter lying on the ground, his backpack the only thing keeping his head from falling against the pavement.

“God,” he groans, rolling his head. “That was intense.”

Tony doesn’t have time to agree. He’s standing up and reaching out a hand to help Peter up. “Listen, kid, you made a promise to me in there; you better keep it.”

In the eerie light from the streetlamps, he can see “But, Mr. Stark” in Peter’s eyes.

He grips Peter by the shoulders and shakes him once, gently. “You promised me.”

Peter sighs. “I did.”

“Then go home, kid.”

“You have no idea where he is.”

“I told you,” Tony says, patting his pockets for his glasses. When he finds them, he pulls them out of his pocket, tossing them aside when he sees the cracks in them. “I’ll call you when I need Spider-man.”

“But Mr. Stark –”

There it is.

He holds up a hand. “No ifs, ands, or buts about this kid. You’re a civilian right now. My job – and yours – is to protect the civilians. For me, right now, right this fucking second, that includes you.”

He can see the argument forming in Peter’s eyes, and he’s worried for a split second that he’s going to have to push him away so that he’ll listen. But Peter nods once, and in all sincerity, says, “Okay, Mr. Stark.”

They part, walking in two different directions.

X-X-X-X-X

You know, for someone who really wants to die, he really doesn’t want to die.

It’s a fear that’s not even in the back of his mind anymore, and it’s making him glance over his shoulder every thirty seconds in this creepily empty street in New York City. It’s not even Queens, which just goes to say how out of his way Peter went to get this guy.

No one’s around.

Which – shit.

He has to go out of his way to find a phone and then make his way all the way back here to fight this guy.

He stops in the middle of the street even as every rational part of him screams that he’s an absolute idiot for doing so.

Which, to be fair, is true.

He could walk right in there.

But that leads to a whole slew of things, and then Peter will be sixteen and managing an entire fucking international company (so he rewrote his will after Peter got a legitimate internship; sue him. You’ll lose, but try it).

He’s reminded of his prayer, and steels himself as he takes a painstakingly slow step towards creepy building #1. If this is the only way that Peter will stay alive, then by all means.

He senses it before he hears it, and it curdles his blood.

It’s a voice, a high-pitched scream that pierces through the silence of the street and straight into him. He feels a shiver race up his spine, and he’s about to backtrack because he might have signed up for scary shit but there was no way in hell that he signed up for creepy af shit.

And then, a whisper that calms him somehow. It seems stupid, and it’s certainly unbelievable, because he has no idea what that whisper said. Just…that it was there.

He squares his shoulders, forcing his body to take a step forward. And then another step, and another, until he’s opening the door to a condemned building with no reinforcements, no backup, no suits, no form of communication whatsoever.

He’s alone in this.

At least, he hopes it stays that way. And knowing Peter, it probably won’t.

But regardless.

The door is heavy, and he half expected it to be boarded up, but then he remembers the word “condemned” literally written all over it, and he realizes that that was a large enough threat.

Sometimes he’s glad he doesn’t have Peter’s superhearing. Other times he’s not. Sometimes, it’s a mix of both.

This is one of those “both” times.

Another scream, and he flinches as the door shuts behind him. It’s something from a horror movie, movies he won’t let Peter watch.

And just like every idiotic character in every single horror movie, he’s stepping into the terror.

But this time he has a reason, a person to protect.

He hears a sob, and only then does he realize that it’s a teenager being tortured. Once he realizes this, he says “fuck it” and immediately follows the sound.

(He doesn’t actually say it; okay, like, he does, but it’s more of a whisper as he silently begs God to lead him to the lair.)

He’s never prayed so much in his entire life, but then, well. Shit happens.

The lair’s in the basement (like every cliché antagonist in every cliché horror film), but the door’s slightly ajar, and he can hear the Stretcher’s laughter. He can’t see any of the contraptions, but for a flickering moment, he catches the Stretcher’s face, and he wants to throw up.

The Stretcher’s a fucking father.

He’s young and a toddler sits in a high chair, clapping its hands.

This is sick, this is so sick, this is fucking awful –

He hears something snap, and the teenager starts pleading. Tony can’t hear what they’re saying, but he hears the Stretcher say, “Tick, tock, time’s all up.”

He shudders, every instinct screaming at him to turn and hightail it the fuck out of there.

He ignores it, taking another step closer, gearing up for another fight.

Another scream, and it’s so desperate and full of pain that Tony’s knees buckle and he falls to the ground.

And silence. Just a long stretch of silence.

The teenager’s dead.

There’s nothing he can do about it, he knows in the back of his mind, but that doesn’t stop the rage from boiling his blood and painting the edges of his vision red.

That could have been Peter.

And it may not be his place, and he may not walk out it alive, but, dammit, he’s an Avenger and he’s going to avenge this.

He pushes the door open, and the Stretcher is standing there a bit expectantly, twirling a knife in his hand. His mouth is splattered with blood, and Tony realizes with a lurch of his stomach that it’s not his.

The Stretcher smiles, and Tony bites the tip of his tongue. This is disgusting; no, no, it’s worse than that, this is fucking inhumane.

“You have a kid,” he grits out, anger roaring in his ears.

The Stretcher cocks his head and shrugs. “Her mom’s out of town this week.”

Something pulls his eyes to the mutilated body beside the Stretcher, and Tony immediately doubles over, clutching his stomach as he hurls.

Which is the exact moment the Stretcher lunges for him.

He half-expects it, to be honest. It’s not like he’s a super unpredictable serial killer. Tony lifts his hand, effectively blocking the knife from puncturing any vital organs.

The metal slices against his forearm, and he grits his teeth. It hurts like hell, and blood is dripping to the floor, but he can do this. He has to.

The Stretcher grabs his forearm and twists him around so that the knife is now pressing against his throat. “I’m going to kill Tony Stark,” he hisses into Tony’s ear. “And no one will be around to help the famous Iron Man.”

He hopes not.

X-X-X-X-X

He’s lost track of time.

His watch is still on, but his wrists are pinned above his head, and he grits his teeth as the Stretcher moves the literal stretching contraption up another notch.

If Tony wasn’t so scared or so disgusted, he might be impressed.

As it is, he is currently planning ways to destroy it.

It’s personally crafted, and from what he remembers Peter telling him about medieval days, it’s a whole lot worse. Especially for him.

“My name’s Ross, by the way,” the Stretcher says nonchalantly, as if he’s not actively torturing Tony. “I mean, you’re not getting out of this, so let’s say we make things a little more…personal.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I think I’m going to stick with the Stretcher. Giving you a name makes you human.”

“Yeah, well,” the Stretcher says, twirling an instrument in his hand, “humans are capable of terrible things.”

As the Stretcher digs into his side with whatever it is, Tony remembers Peter. How the kid could have let a flying monster guy die from his own pride, but instead he risked his life to save him. How the kid has never once tried to kill a single human being, even when it’s entirely justified.

So, yes. Humans may have the potential for terror, but not all of them have the heart for it.

The toddler starts wailing, and the Stretcher puts down his instrument. “Excuse me for a second, Mr. Stark.”

Tony almost cringes. It feels wrong when anyone other than Peter or Ned calls him Mr. Stark, and well…serial killer and all.

The Stretcher opens a cabinet, pulling out some packaged chicken nuggets and a banana. As he cuts up the banana and arranges the food on the plate, he can see Ross, a man, a father. As Ross sets the plate on his child’s high chair, he coos and talks gently to her.

It scares Tony even more.

He doesn’t want to leave the kid without a dad, but well…that’s just how life is sometimes.

As soon as Ross finishes talking with his daughter, he turns around, and he’s the Stretcher again. He picks up a lighter – literally, a cigarette lighter, something that emits fire – and passes it under Tony’s nose. “This is my favorite part.”

He has every feeling in the world that it won’t be his favorite part.

X-X-X-X-X

He senses it.

His heart rate picks up because he just knows that Peter’s in this building. Peter’s going to die, God’s going to fail him, and –

An arrow flies past Tony’s ear, just grazing the Stretcher’s arm. A timer blinks on it. Clint.

The Stretcher walks backwards towards another cabinet and opens it, pulling out a gun.

It’s an expert shot that pinpoints the weapon and a glob of white fluid that sticks it to the wall.

Oh. Oh, God, Peter’s not supposed to be here, Peter’s not supposed to be here, oh God, oh God –

He hears someone mumble something outside the door, and there’s more than one pair of footsteps retreating up the stairs. He hears a faint thwip, and he knows Peter’s among the retreating party.

That’s when he breathes a sigh of relief.

The Stretcher growls, and another arrow is fired, cutting through the binds tied around Tony’s wrists. There’s an “oof,” and another arrow cuts through the binds on his ankles. He’s too weak to fight, he’s too weak to do much of anything but fall to the ground.

A flash of red hair, and the Stretcher’s kneeling on the ground as a shield boomerangs around the room, mere inches from taking the Stretcher’s nose off.

Tony’s not sure if he wants the Stretcher to die or be arrested, but it seems as if Sam and Rhodey make the call.

The door is blasted open, and Sam freefalls for a moment before opening his wings. Someone shouts, “There’s a toddler in here!” Steve runs in, takes the little girl out of her high chair, and runs back up the stairs.

Rhodey’s suit opens up, and he runs in, ducking as if he’s expecting gunfire. He picks Tony up by the arm, and Tony heavily leans into him. “We’ve got Bruce with Peter outside right now,” he says into Tony’s ear.

Tony nods, and Clint runs in, taking Tony’s other side.

Together, they limp up the stairs, and he hears a strangled scream.

“Nat and Sam are going to keep him occupied until the police get here,” Clint says once they reach the main floor.

Tony shakes his head. “Not enough.”

“SWAT team and FBI are coming, too.”

Tony nods, slumping again. The other two men readjust their grip as they lead Tony out of the condemned building.

The street’s not empty anymore.

Police cars block any entry into the street, there are a few vans with S.W.A.T painted on it, and he just knows that the sirens are enough to send Peter into sensory overload.

He grips Rhodey’s shirt in his fist. “Where’s the kid?”

Rhodey points, and he sees Peter still has the mask on and is carefully holding the girl in his arms. Part of him wants to throw up because she’s half him, half a serial killer. But he knows that’s not fair; she’s not her father.

Peter looks up and sees Tony, and his spider eyes widen. “Mr. – I-I mean, Tony!” He passes the girl back to Steve and rushes forward.

He skids to a stop just in front of him, and Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll let you two have a reunion later, son. Right now, we need to get him back to the compound.”

Rhodey whistles, and his suit comes flying back. “Meet you at the compound, Bruce?”

Bruce nods once. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Tony doesn’t remember the flight.

X-X-X-X-X

He doesn’t see Peter for three months after the incident.

When he comes to, it’s Rhodey sitting by his bedside. He offers no explanation for Peter’s absence, just squeezes his shoulder and says, “Thank God you’re alive.”

At first, he thinks it’s just the trauma. But as days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, he thinks he knows what it is.

The only question is how he didn’t figure it out sooner.

It’s always been a pattern, with him: someone comes into his life and makes it better and he finally feels like he has a family. And then, after time passes, they leave. Every time.

Sometimes they come back, but it’s never the same. He and Steve are hardly acquaintances now, and he and Pepper are simply work partners.

But Peter…

Tony’s always known it was going to happen eventually, but he’s ashamed to admit that he hoped that it wouldn’t. He’s hoped that Peter wouldn’t walk out of his life, but now he has, now that he’s become too difficult to deal with.

He still watches over him. Or, tries to, for that matter. He’s still recovering, and it’s not until the three month mark that he sees Spider-man again.

Not in the flesh, of course.

He’s watching the news for this very reason, to see what stupid thing Peter’s gotten himself into. And then the news report comes in, telling a daunting story of Spider-man spotted in Nebraska after he’d gone after another serial killer – this one known as “Tiny Todd.”

And then the last puzzle piece falls into place.

He gets up immediately and limps to his computer. He hears Bruce say something behind him, but he waves a hand at him, pulling up a chair and typing into the search bar.

There’s over six hundred recent news stories about Spider-man.

Mostly how he’s been specifically targeting serial killers.

He never kills, just like he never has, but he maims. He incapacitates. One of the criminals is missing a few fingers, and it’s reported that Spider-man took one of them off.

Tony feels sick to his stomach.

He reaches under the desk and pulls out the trash can, turning in his seat in time to get the vomit into it.

Peter’s going to kill himself doing this.

Tony picks up the phone and dials May Parker immediately, and she picks up on the first ring, tears in her voice as she keeps telling him that she couldn’t stop him, Peter just ran out of the apartment and he hasn’t come back.

He hangs up, not quite ready to deal with the influx of information.

He calls the school.

Peter’s been out of class for three months, and they heard that he was going to be in the hospital indefinitely due to a plane crash. Tony’s heart almost stops before he realizes that May came up with a cover story.

He calls Peter.

Peter doesn’t pick up.

Tony curses and looks up the current “FBI’s Most Wanted” list. It’s changed thanks to Peter – or rather, Spider-man. There’s one more serial killer on the list – stationed (as far as they’re aware) in upstate New York and who goes by the alias Axon.

Peter’s going to go after him.

Tony won’t let him.

He stands up and sways immediately, catching himself only by gripping the edge of the computer desk.

Rhodey’s the one who comes to his side. “Easy, big fella,” he says, wrapping Tony’s arm around his neck. “You’re not quite in good enough shape to go after your Spider-son.”

He’s not my son, Tony almost says, but he doesn’t have the heart to. Instead, he says, “I’ve gotta go after him.”

Rhodey shakes his head. “No, you’re not. You’ve already been tortured by one serial killer, no need to make it two. Sam, Steve, Nat, and myself will go after him. Scott will come along just in case we come across Spider-man.”

“I should be there,” Tony says unconvincingly as his head lolls.

“Uh-huh, keep telling yourself that, buddy. We’ve got this covered.”

He doesn’t have to ask to know it’s true: Peter’s already found him. They’re tracking the suit.

Rhodes deposits him on his bed, but before he leaves, Tony reaches out and grabs his arm. “Don’t,” he says, “let Peter suffer anymore trauma than he already has.”

He promises nothing.

X-X-X-X-X

It’s his first kill.

The news report comes in approximately fifteen minutes before the heroes do, and it’s rumored that Spider-man had cried after the event.

No wonder.

He knows it’s not his place to ask, and he’s not going to until the initial trauma passes.

And, besides, he already knows the answer.

Peter walks into the compound mask-less, Steve and Natasha following him as they share a knowing look and Scott gently guiding him forward with a hand hovering over his back.

Tony’s leaning on a crutch, but when he Peter sees him, his face scrunches and he falls to his knees as he sobs.

Tony forgets the crutch.

He waves the other Avengers away, kneeling by Peter’s side.

“I-I swore I would never kill anyone, a-and I-I did, I kill-killed a person –”

Tony gently shushes him through his tears. “You did what you had to, kid.”

“He-he was threatening to kill you, Mr. Stark. And-and I don’t know what happened, I just-I just snapped, and then I’d killed him, and I can’t undo that, I’m so sorry –”

“Hey,” Tony says firmly, enough so that Peter looks him in the eyes. “Don’t apologize. You did what you had to do.”

“Bu-but I killed him.”

“And he could have killed you.”

There’s a tense moment of silence before Peter practically launches himself into Tony’s arms. Tony’s heart squeezes in his chest, and he thanks God for bringing his kid back to him.

“It’ll all be alright. Nothing’s gonna hurt you anymore, I promise, kid, I promise. I’m safe.”

He hardly believes his words himself, but he feels Peter nod against his chest, and his fists bunch around the shirt Tony’s currently wearing. “Ca-can I stay here, tonight, Mr. Stark?”

Tony nods. “Of course, kid, of course.”

X-X-X-X-X

It’s Vision who comes to get him.

“Sir,” the android says, and Tony literally almost shits his pants. “I believe Mr. Parker is having a distressing dream.”

Tony throws the covers off his body and gets up slowly, taking notice of how stiff his bones feel. He rolls his shoulders, and he hears the small pops that come with it. “I’ll be there in a sec, Vis. Just…go do your thing.”

“I will, sir,” Vision says with a slight nod.

Tony sighs and stands, making his way to Peter’s room. Even outside the door, he can hear the tossing and turning, and then, so quiet that he’s pretty sure he imagined it, crying.

He sighs again and knocks on the door, waiting for Peter’s small “come in.” When it comes, he opens the door, and he sees a kid.

He almost always forgets that Peter’s sixteen – in the back of his mind, he knows it, but it’s knowledge, not realization. It’s knowledge in the way one knows that washing your hands helps prevent sickness; like, yes, you know it, but it’s not until you skip out on that step and get sick that you know it.

So, like that, he always knows that Peter’s sixteen, but he doesn’t really and truly know it until moments like these: when he’s Peter Parker, not Spider-man; when he’s a boy who doesn’t know how to properly talk to his crush and who goes to school every day, not a superhero who has taken down a number of serial killers.

“You want to talk about it, kid?” he says, stepping into the room and sitting in the chair beside Peter’s door.

“Not really.” It’s a child’s voice that echoes back to him, and Tony nods.

“It might help.”

“It means I have to relive it.”

“But,” Tony sighs, running a hand through his sleep-matted hair, “it’s not going to be as vivid, it’s not going to be as bad. You’re not there anymore; you’re here.”

Even in the darkness, he can see Peter shake his head. “There’s not much to it, Mr. Stark. I went after him like I went after all the big guys after the Stretcher hurt you; this one was scarier, and I thought I could handle that, but then he threatened you. And-and I can’t lose you, Mr. Stark, you’re the closest thing I have to a dad –” He stops for air, and a sob escapes his throat. “I don’t remember any of the fight, but when the adrenaline wore off, he was dead and the rest of the team was just starting to arrive.”

Tony purses his lips and thinks for a moment. “Listen, kid. You’re going to need therapy for this, and I’m not talking school-counselor type shit. I mean, a therapist who’s actually trained to listen to superheroes about their admittedly very traumatic experiences. I don’t want you turning out like me; that’s not something you should try to achieve.”

“But you said you want me to be better, and how can I be better than the best?”

Tony manages a sad smile at that. “Mentally,” he points to his temple, “I shouldn’t be anyone’s hero. I’m working through it, and I should’ve started doing it earlier and in healthier ways. I don’t want you dealing with this stuff, kid. It’s a mental war every single day, and they always say war is hell. Just…promise me you’ll try it. I’ll send the information to May later.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Okay, Mr. Stark.” Another beat of silence. Then: “I’m scared, Mr. Stark.”

“I know, kid. I know.” And really, he does. He knows it because his own fear runs deep into his own core. “Just close your eyes, Pete. You’ll be alright. I’m here, and I’m going to be here until I’m one hundred percent sure that you’re safe and sound.”

Peter nods and flops back against the pillow. “G’night, Mr. Stark.”

Tony settles back against the chair. “Goodnight, kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> That was mentally draining and I will never write something like this again.
> 
> Also, for the prayer part: I feel like this needs to be said, so I'm going to say it - I think including that part was my subconscious's way of telling me that I needed to talk to God again. And for most of you that doesn't really matter, but it does to me. If it bothers you, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to bend to your will.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
